


Extra Credit

by orphan_account



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry and michael hook up backstage. that's it, that's the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extra Credit

Underneath the slow burn release of kinetic energy that is their last week of tour runs the urgency of ticking seconds. Harry isn’t one to watch the clock, but they’re three more shows away from the end of their UK leg, and when it’s done the Australians are going home. For all that they’ve accomplished so far, it still doesn’t feel like enough.

Michael doesn’t like to waste time, either, pulling Harry into one of the empty dressing rooms backstage as soon as their last encore is done. Sometimes the 5sos boys leave straight after their set while One Direction do theirs, better than hanging out at a crowded venue for two hours. Harry didn’t notice Luke, Calum, or Ash in the fumbled escape down the hall, his sweaty palm in Michael’s warm one, so they must’ve left sometime after the human pyramid fiasco. The thought of Michael waiting all that time, by himself, just for Harry, makes him lightheaded. 

It’s easy to let Michael push him around, kick the door closed behind them and kiss as they walk until Michael’s back hits the wall, hands groping for Harry’s hips to pull him in. Harry’d prefer his own back against the wall and Michael taking control instead of just pretending, but in the few times they hooked up Harry spent more time teaching Michael how to feel good (how to take his time, how to give a blowjob, how to take a cock and enjoy it), he doesn’t expect Michael to be on the same level yet. If they had longer, maybe.

Harry pulls back from the kiss to mouth along Michael’s jaw, lathing his tongue along the peach fuzz coating his chin. It’s a thing of Michael’s, and he bares his neck at the same time he pulls their hips flush together, a quick learner and already better at multitasking than Harry was at his age. “Impatient, are you?” he teases, embarrassed the way Michael’s thigh rubbing into his crotch makes his voice break into a groan before he can get all of the words out. His dick is already fattening, straining at the thick material of his jeans, and possibly cutting off circulation to the part of his brain that differentiates good and bad decisions.

“You know it,” Michael answers, gasping as the kiss Harry presses to his neck turns to a lovebite, pulling blood to the surface of the skin with his teeth just to feel how Michael goes pliant against him. “I watch some of the show after the others left. You, uh, looked pretty good out there.” His fingers slip beneath Harry’s shirt in what is probably an attempt to be coquettish, calloused against the ticklish skin of Harry’s ribs.

Harry resists the urge to respond in kind, because he caught Michael’s show, too, and Michael looked good out there, too, flicking his blue tipped fringe out of his eyes every few minutes and the curve of his arse in skinny jeans, every bit the teen emo heartthrob Harry teases him for. He’s glad Michael had the sense to change out his stage clothes, sweatpants all the easier for him to slip his fingers into. 

“Thanks,” Harry responds, moving back up to Michael’s mouth. He only realises how belated a response that is when Michael pulls back to roll his eyes. A smile tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth, he can’t help it. He is so terribly endeared. “What?”

“That’s it? No, ‘shit, Michael, you’re so hot, Michael, I’m weak at the knees’?”

Harry snorts into his neck, pokes his tongue out to lathe over the skin in apology. “I could serenade you,” he offers. “I only know One Direction songs, though, sorry.”

“Nah, the moment is gone,” Michael shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to keep fucking instead.”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing?”

This time Michael’s eye roll is ineffectual, coupled with his own endeared smirk. The skin of his chest is flushed and heated where it peeks from under his oversized hoodie. Harry’s hands slide up it to rest on where his neck meets his shoulders, feeling the muscles strain to catch Harry’s mouth again, eager and imprecise but learning.

“Yeah, you should,” Michael starts, grip tightening on Harry’s waist, “you should fuck me. I got myself prepared – while – before, just like we practised, remember?”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, arousal spiking at the image of Michael on his back, two lubed fingers shoved inside himself to chase the memory of Harry’s. He tries not to come in his pants just because Michael fits every pathetic teenage fantasy Harry entertains since he knew he was allowed to, like Michael arrived gift wrapped at his doorstep.

“Fuck,” he breathes into Michael’s neck, while the image loops in his head, hair falling in his eyes, one hand on his cock, was he naked or too impatient to get there, did he come just like that thinking of Harry and touching himself, or did he hold off this long so Harry could do it for him? Harry may have had to introduce him to patience, but initiative was always one of Michael’s defining attributes. 

He shoves Michael’s sweatpants down the curse of his arse, gets a hand around his leg when he lifts it to wrap around Harry’s hip. Harry lets his hand be guided behind Michael’s legs, an awkward angle that Harry is willing to excuse, forgets why it’s so important when he finds the slick spot Michael’s body gives. “Fuck,” he repeats. This time it’s cut off by Michael’s tongue in his mouth and a soft groan as Harry sinks his fingers deeper.

“Initiative – good,” Harry slurs, pushing his fingers to the knuckle. Michael is relaxed but his body is still tight, still new to this, and it makes Harry’s head spin to think about Michael tightening around his cock, how he’s only gotten more confident since the first time. Technically, Harry didn’t take his virginity, he wasn’t the first mouth or hand that touched him if the stories Calum tells about Sydney girls are true, but Harry was the first one Michael ever did anything like this with.

“Yeah?” Michael goads. His eyes flash wide and hopeful and needy, the kind of desperate Harry gets sometimes when there’s fingers up _his_ arse. “How’s it feel? S’good?” Harry nods, nips at Michael’s lower lip, still rocking gently into the thigh between his legs. “Ya gonna fuck me now?” he asks, still needy, still pushy.

Normally Harry would wait until they were properly alone, not fumbling around where any of the dozens of people in their entourage could walk in. The dressing room they’re in is bare save for a clothes rack, empty, a threadbare couch, and a slightly depressing air of neglect. Harry likes romance. If he could, he’d take Michael back to his hotel room, play mood music, order an expensive bottle of champagne just to chase the bubbles off Michael’s tongue, do everything right.

Michael might go for that, if they have time before the tour ends for something less spontaneous. With the way Michael’s moving against him, both of them rocking into each other, cutting off groans with tongue and frantic kisses, it doesn’t seem like they’ll get much more than a frenzied shag backstage. Bus call isn’t for another twenty minutes, they’ve got time enough for this.

“Please,” Michael whimpers, rubbing a palm down Harry’s crotch, pressing when he finds Harry’s dick fattening along the leg of his jeans. This kid is just full of good ideas. It’s hard to believe Harry didn’t just make him up.

“Okay,” he mutters, pulling his fingers out with a small groan, “on the couch,” splits his pants as he moves backwards, relief as his cock springs free, Michael slumped against the wall to watch. The droop of his eyelids and the way he bites his lip is what Harry would call coy, if Michael was doing it on purpose. Harry hasn’t mentioned anything about how much of a turn on it is, because Michael would just use it against him, and he likes his sanity, thanks much.

Michael pulls a bottle of lube from his pocket then shucks his pants as he walks over, his baggy hoodie hanging low around his thighs and covering all the places Harry wants to put his mouth on. Harry’s kit is next to go, shirt off and jeans pushed past his knees, tangled up with his boots. The cold air hits him with a shiver, the couch scratchy against his bare skin, but Michael’s pulling his hoodie off and climbing into Harry’s lap, his warmth invasive, Harry soaking it up like a sponge.

“This alright?” Michael strokes a hand up Harry’s dick before he can form a coherent answer. Even if it wasn’t for the relief of finally being touched, the post-show adrenaline or whatever it is has him on edge already. Maybe it’s the horny teenager lacking in self-control he turns into whenever Michael’s around.

“Great,” he finally croaks, hands stroking along Michael’s sides encouragingly. “Could you – there’s a condom in my back pocket, left.” Michael’s eyes light up again, eyebrows disappearing beneath his fringe in a grin before he twists around on the couch to reach Harry’s jeans. Bless his forward thinking, Harry muses, it makes Michael so happy.

Pent up as he is, Harry would object to the fact that he’s no longer being touched, but Michael is practically draped across his lap, nuzzling his face into Harry’s knee as he fumbles through pockets. His back breaks out in goosebumps when Harry strokes a hand down it, touching his fingers to where Michael’s still slick and easy.

Michael jumps, chokes out, “fucker”, and bites into Harry’s knee hard enough to leave a mark. When he catches Harry’s eye he’s ripping the condom packet open with his teeth, lube at the ready, determined with a single-mindedness Harry can’t help but respect. All he has to do is sit back, give into the sensations of Michael rolling the condom down his cock and draping lube over it, steadying him with his hands on Michael’s hips as he lines up and sinks slowly down.

It takes several minutes for Michael to adjust, breathing out slowly, hitching his hips forward until their hips are flush. Harry doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath until he chokes on the exhale, clenching all the muscles in his body in an effort not to buck up. Michael’s going to have marks from Harry’s fingers tomorrow, mimicking the now-faded ones on his hips from the last time they fucked.

By the time Michael starts to move, Harry’s lungs are burning and he’s lightheaded again from the lapful of pretty boy and lack of sufficient breathing. He loves this part the best, being overwhelmed, unable to do anything but feel. Michael spends another minute just rocking his hips, letting Harry dick into him more than anything, still getting used to it after only a handful of times. It’s not long before he starts to rise up a little, sinking back down just as quickly, hands braced on the back of the couch for leverage, face screwed up in concentration, little hitches in breath every time he comes back down hard.

Harry isn’t used to fucking someone his size. Mostly it’s girls, and other times it’s boys that are taller, lankier, musclier, older. Michael isn’t any of those things, and Harry doesn’t mind so much.

He’s sweating, pale skin flushed ripe, eyes blinking languidly without focus. He’s worked up a good rhythm, one hand braced behind him on Harry’s thigh as he drives himself down, rises back up, drops, repeats. The pace is driving Harry a little mental. He wants to spread Michael out on his back like a meal, take his time, shove so deep Michael won’t forget him, burn the image of him into the back of his mind where it can’t be wiped out.

He wraps his arms around Michael’s waist and gathers him close, thrusting as best he can to hear the sharp, punctured gasps that spill into the air, pulling Michael back down on his cock. Michael’s fingers scrabble at Harry’s back, warm and still slick, his other hand reaching between them for his own dick. Harry wants that, too, wants to have his hands and mouth and tongue all over him, so far beyond possessive it’s a punch to the gut at the loss when Michael comes by his own hand, shaking out all over Harry’s stomach. Until he bends to lick the splashes of his own come off Harry’s chest and bite harshly down. Harry’s a little less insane, after that.

Michael meets his eye with a slow grin. “See? Inconspicuous. Could learn a thing or two, babe.” The mark on Harry’s chest isn’t yet visible over the flush, but it stings enough to make up for it.

“Here I thought I was the one teaching you,” Harry huffs. He leans forward to kiss the smugness off Michael’s face. It’s slow for a minute while Harry keeps moving, then Michael’s thrusting down again impatiently with the same sharp _ah_ noises, meeting the roll of Harry’s hips while they kiss, clenching until Harry loses it and comes with a soft cry. He feels whatever feeble defence he’s tried to build crumble, screws his eyes closed in the hope Michael doesn’t see it.

Suddenly the lights are too bright and there’s nowhere to hide what’s probably written all over his face, so he leans forward to rest against Michael’s chest. He’s still panting, not bothering to pull off Harry’s softening cock. His laugh into Harry’s sweaty hair is soft but still echoes around the room.

He’s half-hard again, too, but seemingly uninterested in doing anything about it. For a minute Harry entertains the thought of blowing him, a show of solidarity and just because he wants to. 

He kisses Michael instead, drawing it out as much as he can because he might not get another chance to. They’ve wasted as long as they can before they have to board the bus, and their time is almost up.


End file.
